The Worse Species
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: Making her way through Sevastapol Station, fighting to stay alive against humans and the alien creature that stalked them all, Amanda Ripley asked a simple question - who was the worse species?


_You know, Burke, I don't know which species is worse. You don't see them fucking each other over for a goddamn percentage._

Ellen Ripley, Hadley's Hope, 2179

* * *

**The Worse Species**

It occurs to me, as I carry the trauma kit under one arm and head for the elevator, that if I were to die right this second, it would at least be while I was doing the right thing.

I've been thinking a lot about that over the past few hours. Questions of right and wrong. Questions about human nature. Questions about the universe, and what horrors it's spawned. I've even been questioning artificial intelligence, because it appears that AI wants to kill me as well. But most of all, there's the notion of what I'm doing in this place. I'm risking my life to help a woman I barely know, asked to do so by a man I barely know. At the time, I thought nothing of it. A quick trip in and out, and Taylor would be fixed. Now, half an hour later...

It's hunting me. There's no other explanation for it. I saw it take Kuhlman. Getting to the lower level, I could see it was still hunting me. Does it need to feed again? Does it feed on us at all? Or are we simply to be killed? When people like Kuhlman and Axel died, were they the means to an end, or an end in itself? Clutching my revolver, I can appreciate that I haven't asked these questions before now. But this monster, this creature, this…_alien_. It isn't acting like a normal animal. A normal animal would have ended its hunt long ago, but this thing…all it does is kill.

I pick up my pace a little, glancing over my shoulder – no sight, no sound. It appears to have left the area. Up ahead, I can see an elevator. Quick trip up, get back to Taylor and Samuels, and then…well, then we'll be slightly less screwed than we were thirty minutes ago. Looking to my right, I see a pile of crates and wonder if it's worth searching them but-

_What?_

The elevator's opened. Two men walk out. I stop still, catching my breath.

"Seriously, I'm fucking sick of always being on the salvage run."

It's not so much that there's two men before me that have got me to stop.

"I know. You've told me five times already."

It's that they've got guns. Pistols, to be exact.

"And I'll tell you and Saul a sixth time if…"

And that they've stopped. And are looking at me. Three people, three guns, one trauma kit.

_Shit._

"Hey," one of them says. He waves the pistol at me. "What you doing down here?"

I take a step back. If I turn and run, they'll shoot me. If I stay still, they'll take the trauma kit. Then shoot me.

"Can you talk?"

Or they'll shoot me and then take the kit.

"Lady?"

"I…" I take a breath, reminding myself of what I'm doing. "I'm…helping someone."

Not everyone on this station has to be an asshole. Surely they have to realize that bullets are better used against that creature than each other.

"Helping someone," the first man murmurs. He looks at his buddy. "Hear that Nigel? The broad is _helping someone_."

"My friend," I say – don't know if Taylor is a "friend" at this point, but that sounds better than "colleague" or "acquaintance." "She…she's injured. I was-"

"What's in the kit?"

The other one, Nigel, has spoken up. Nigel, who takes step forward. Nigel, whose eyes I can see in the darkness.

"What's. In. The. Kit?"

Sweat pours down my neck. My breath is hot and ragged, burning my throat. I glance at the crates, then at the men. There's about ten metres between us. If it came to that-

"Lady, what's in the fucking kit?!"

"Medicine!" I blurt out.

I feel like kicking myself. But…oh god, it's near me.

"Medicine," Nigel murmurs. He looks at his lackey. "We could use medicine couldn't we?"

I know it's here. God it's here. I…I'm going to die. I'm trying to hold onto the kit and revolver, but God my hands are trembling…

"Stanford could," the other man murmurs.

I don't know who Stanford is. Maybe he's a decent person. Maybe what I'm carrying could save his life. But-

"Alright," says Nigel. He points his pistol at me. "Drop your gun, kick it over, then toss the kit over as well."

I shake my head. "No. My friend-"

"Option two is I shoot you, take your gun, take the kit, and then we fuck off. Either way, we get what we want."

I open my mouth – I want to say that if they shoot me, they'll be short one bullet. But no words come out. I can't speak. I can't breathe. My legs feel like they're on fire. My body's yelling at me to run. My brain's pounding, trying to keep me in place. My heart's beating like a jackhammer and-

"One," Nigel says. "Two."

"Okay!" I yell.

I'm not even thinking. But instinct is making me say whatever it takes to stay alive.

"Okay?" Nigel asks.

"Okay," I say. I take a breath. "I…I'll hand them over."

"Good girl." He points his gun at the floor before me. "Revolver first."

I nod. I slowly squat down...I'll do what he says…have to live…

_Taylor won't._

I might not live. They might shoot me anyway. The creature might come back. I could…the gun's nearly down on the floor…I could…maybe…no…too risky…but I…I have to…

I dive behind the crates. Nigel fires. He misses.

"Shit!"

I don't even know which one of the two exclaims that. But it doesn't matter. I drop the kit on the ground and put both hands on the revolver.

"You fucking bitch!"

I hear footsteps. Without thinking, I poke the revolver over the top of the crates and fire.

"Shit!"

"Stay back!" I yell.

"Lady, I'm gonna-"

"I said stay the fuck back!"

I resist the urge to fire again – I don't have the bullets to spare. And even now, despite everything, I don't want to shoot them. It's strange, even in this moment, but the thought of taking a human life, even after being attacked…

"Fine," one of them says – not!Nigel, I decide to call him. "We'll do this the hard way."

_The hard way. _In spite of everything, I almost laugh. I've been doing this "the hard way" ever since I began that EVA trip and nearly got killed in the process. Releasing one hand from the gun, I look at the motion tracker. I see two dots, barely registering, situated about ten metres from my location.

"Guys," I say. "We don't have to do this."

"No lady, I think we fucking have to do this," Nigel says.

I look at the motion tracker again. One of the dots is at ten metres. One of them is closing in. Nine metres. Eight metres.

"Stay back," I say – I want to shout it, but my voice is being caught in my throat.

Seven metres. Six metres.

"I'm warning you."

Five metres. Four metres.

"I said stay back!"

I fire upwards.

"Shit!"

The dot recedes. If he was thinking, he'd realize that I had no way of hitting him. But he's afraid. We're all afraid. I look at the motion tracker again. The two dots are at ten metres again.

"Lady, I swear to God, I'm gonna fucking-"

There's a third dot now.

_Oh my God._

The third dot is at thirty-five metres. Twenty-five from them.

"…and then I'm gonna…"

Twenty-four metres from them. Twenty-three metres.

_God. Please._

"…and then, when you're begging for it to end…"

_Oh God oh God oh God oh God…._

Twenty-one metres. Twenty metres.

"I'm gonna-"

"We've gotta go," I say.

"What?" not!Nigel asks.

Nineteen metres. Eighteen metres.

"It's here." I try to make my voice as loud and as soft as possible. "It's coming up behind you."

_God. Please._

Seventeen metres. Sixteen metres.

"Behind us," Nigel scoffs. "Yeah, sure lady. Dark and ugly just happens to be here right when you need it."

Fifteen metres. Fourteen metres.

"You need to move," I call out.

Thirteen metres. Twelve metres.

"Jesus, it's coming!"

"Um, Nigel?" the other guy asks.

Eleven metres. Ten metres.

"Fuck it," Nigel says. "I've had enough of this shit.

Nine metres. Eight metres.

_No. Please. God._

Seven metres. Six metres.

"Nigel?"

_God, help me!_

"Lady, it's been fun, but…"

_Please, someone! Anyone!_

Five metres. Four metres.

"…it's been a lousy date, and…

Three metres. Two metres.

"And…and I…I…"

Two metres. Two metres.

"Jesus Christ!"

I close my eyes. All I hear is the blip of the motion tracker. The gunshots. The screech. The screams.

I cower up, and let the tears flow as I hear them. I dare to hope that the guns being fired will be enough to kill it.

"No! No, please!"

There's a second scream. The sound of something hitting the floor. A hiss.

I turn the motion tracker off. I can't let it hear me. It-

**Thump.**

I can hear it. It's walking. I put my hands over my mouth, and crawl up against the crates as much as possible.

**Thump. Thump.**

I keep my eyes open, no matter how much I want to keep them closed.

**Thump. Thump.**

I can't run. I can't shoot. I can only stay here. Hiding.

**Thump. Thump.**

Can only sit here, trembling, sweating, watching as it walks past the crates. How it stands there. Sniffing the air.

_Please don't look._

I want to look away, but I can't. I see its dark carapace. The moisture that covers it. The blood on its claws.

_Please…_

The way it just stands there, looking at the world through means other than eyes. Looking for its next prey, already forgetting its last two victims.

_God, please…_

It sniffs. I look away. I don't want to see it coming. I can't meet death in the face.

_Don't look. Don't look._

**Thump. Thump.**

_Don't turn. Don't turn._

**Thump. Thump,**

_Please…_

**Thump. **Thump.

_It's going…_

Thump. Thump.

I reactivate the motion tracker. Eight metres. Nine metres.

_Keep going. Keep going._

Ten metres. Eleven metres.

_Move._

Twelve metres. Thirteen metres.

_Move!_

I get to my feet. I holster the revolver – it can't help me now. I check the motion tracker.

Fourteen metres. Fifteen metres.

_Move. Now!_

I head for the elevator…and stop.

"Jesus," I whisper.

The bodies are still there. Blood pours out of the corpses, staining the floor. Unless the creature bleeds red as well, there's no sign of any of its own blood having been shed. There's some scorch marks on the ground that are smoking, like some kind of liquid scorched it, but that doesn't make sense. Maybe it's from the gunshots?

_Move._

I kneel down and put their pistols in my belt. I can take stock of things when I'm with Taylor and Samuel. Heck, maybe three pistols can succeed where two didn't. Or, most likely, not.

_Damn it Amanda, move!_

I obey instinct – it's managed to keep me alive so far. And yet I glance back at the bodies, and I can't help but wonder who's the worse species.

The creature, while killing for the sake of it, could well be acting on instinct. But the people of Sevastopol, the children of Earth…they have a choice. We all do. They made theirs, and paid the price.

It is only a thought. But it stays with me as I make my way through the darkness.

Always looking at a green, crackling screen.

* * *

_A/N_

_So, I've started playing _Alien: Isolation_, and...yeah. Can't say I'm enjoying it much. I can concede that I might just suck at the game, but that only covers the gameplay angle. Storywise...okay, I have a lot of gripes, but I can't help but feel it's a stretch that so far everyone on _Sevastapol _is an arsehole bar Axel. Cripes, even the prisoners in _Alien 3 _sussed out that it was best to stick together and maybe not go _Lord of the Flies _while there's an alien killing them._

_Still, it did get me to drabble up, which is loosely adapted from an in-game experience I had (you can probably guess what section if you've played that), so, there's that I guess. _


End file.
